Two Words, Six Syllables
by GoddessofSnark
Summary: Angsty one shot, two words, six syllables, something that used to hold pleasure for one now holds something else entirely. Deals with character death.


A/N don't own them, would like to though.  
  
This is a DARK ANGSTY fic. It involves death. If you don't like that turn back now. It also involves a rather cold cruel potions master, and is far from your usual HG/SS fare. This manifested itself as a plot bunny while writing a chapter of the same title for my other fic Never Forget.  
  
START  
  
Two words, six syllables. How many times had he uttered them? How many times had he spoken those words, felt the surge of power, knowing that he was playing god, smiting those who had sinned, at least in the dark lord's eyes? Too many for him to count, but yet, every time he spoke them, a part of him rejoiced, part of him felt good. He lived to feel that power; it was something that he took perverse pleasure in.  
  
But every time he felt that surge of pleasure, he felt a surge of nausea to go with it. He knew he shouldn't delight in it, but yet he did. It felt good, it proved that he wasn't some pathetic weakling; it proved that he was more than anyone ever expected of him. Every time he said those two words, he felt as if he was proving himself, not only to the other cloaked and masked figures around him, but to himself, to the world.  
  
They were two words that he took pleasure in, the two words that made the dark revels entertaining, the two words that made the atrocious gatherings bearable. But he couldn't find the voice to mutter them, not now. He fought down the bile rising in his throat as he thought of all the other times that he had said those words, watching as innocent lives fell at his feet, he thought of all the power that he felt, all the joy that he felt in knowing that he had achieved the ultimate power over another, but still he found the acrid taste in his mouth.  
  
The innocent brown eyes looked up at him, with just the slightest trace of fear. If it was anyone else they would have been shaking, they would have been gagged to stop them from screaming as they realized what was going to happen to them. She sat there, bound tightly and stared up at him, looked deeply into his black eyes, and as he raised his wand to her, he found that the words lacked power.  
  
She looked at him expectantly, a calf to the slaughter. He had never ever vomited while he did this, or even afterwards. Sometimes, he felt sick, but a glass or two of strong brandy usually got rid of that nausea. The pleasure was to great. He loved the power, the sadistic joys that it gave him, but not now. He felt the cold eyes on him from behind the masks and he knew that he had to do this, that his own life depended on it.  
  
"I'm sorry" He murmured quietly, so that she was the only one that could hear him. "I'm so sorry for this Hermione." He hissed as he pointed his wand at her, watching as the brown eyes closed in expectation, knowing what was to come.  
  
"I forgive you, Severus. It's what you have to do." She said, in an equally hushed tone.  
  
He found the two words, six syllables to slide off of his tongue, and he fought hard not to think of her as the know it all Gryffindor that had sat in the front of his classroom waving her hand madly, eager to prove her knowledge, to think of her as just any other mudblood, another casualty inflicted by the dark lord, but all the while, those deep chocolate eyes haunted him.  
  
He saw the burst of green light as she fell over, hitting the soft grass almost silently. He looked at the red eyes that looked on, pleading to leave and the dark lord nodded. He had fulfilled his duties for the night. He was no longer needed, and staying longer than he was needed was a hazard to health, as he knew that the dark lord would be in search of a new plaything soon.  
  
He had barely apparated back into the forbidden forest when he found himself doubled over, retching. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his robes, and collapsed backwards into the soft grass, the same way she had. He knew he would never erase those brown eyes from his memory, or the fact that her last words were that she forgave him. She had even used his first name, something that he was unsure that the head girl had even known.  
  
Two words, six syllables. Something that had once held such pleasure for him, now held a dark deep regret. Every time he thought of them, every time he said them, he saw those brown eyes, and every time he thought of her, he found his chest unusually tight, although from grief and regret, or from sheer nausea he was unsure.  
  
FIN 


End file.
